The Plight Of A Poor Soul
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: 'I knew he'd come back. I wasn't mad- no matter what Ella said. What did she know, anyway? But the most important thing was, right now, someone was playing the violin in Sherlock's room- it was locked and I hadn't been in there for two years.' Gah, sorry, I'm terrible at summaries. Read- Angst- please rate and review!


_**NOTE: The beginning bit it written from the skulls point of view- Sorry, not a clue as to where that came from! It changes to John's halfway.**_

_**Also, I'm sorry I haven't been updating- I started year nine and I'm dealing with a lot of bullying lately (the joys of being a freak in an all girls school!), and not to mention homework; I'm taking many GCSE's early, which means a shedload of coursework! So yes, a massive sorry for that! :/**_

_**This was suppost to be fluff, I don't know what happened. -_- So yeah, this is a massive angst-fest. I'll try and write something lighter tomorrow.**_

_**Lastly (but not least!) this is for Lexi, for just generally putting up with my moans and groans and being there for me. :)**_

_** Enjoy!**_

_**Lock xxxx :)**_

* * *

John never went into Sherlock's bedroom much, not even when he was alive.

Now, however, I noticed it has been left closed; exactly the way Sherlock had left it. John honestly had no idea how long he hadn't been in there for- a year? Two? Each seemed to blend together in the ghostly silence of the flat and never ending days- and he wasn't even sure if the bed was made, or the Periodic Table still hung on the wall.

Then again, John didn't really pride himself in 'knowing' things- that had been His department.

He had me on his lap now- I seemed to have taken Sherlock's place ever since the fall- calloused thumbs running along my dark sockets and sharp cheekbones.

'You know, I never knew something could be so special.' John huffed. His eyes twinkled, but he smiled (how is it someone can look so happy, but their soul is so tainted with sadness?). His thumb started to run along my teeth. 'I mean, Sherlock was insane- but I never knew that he meant so much. It's like you in a way- you're my connection to him. But out of everything, I don't know why it was you-'

_Thanks lovely. Real charmer, you._

'-That took his place. It's like you're him. But I don't know why.' John placed me on the coffee table and held his head in his hands.

I didn't really know what to say- I mean, it's not as if he would hear me anyway, and, if he did, he'd panic and think he was going insane- so I just sat there and looked at him.

Though, truth be told, John hadn't known that day; he hadn't known that his world would have been turned topsy-turvey, or that his best friend was going to jump, or that he may have well been the one hitting the pavement with a resounding crack that day either.

* * *

In the ever stretching eternity in front of him, John thought, and thought, and thought.

Have beens. Should've saids. Could've beens. His head was practically _spinning_ with the things, poor dear.

John had always been fascinated by parallel universes (Now, I know, I've gone off track but bear with me- I always wander back); the fact that one path could lead to another, and another. For example it's the almost-not-really whole grandfather theory- if you go back in time, and kill your grandfather, you'd have never existed. BUT if you never existed how could you have killed your grandfather in the first place? There would, quite possibly, be parallel universes to deal with that conundrum- one universe, you kill your grandfather and die- another, you go round in circles- the third, you were never born, and the fourth the machine was never invented. Four separate universes _minimum_ to add to the one you live in now.

Right, that was quite off track, wasn't it?

My point is (give me a break- I've been dead for fifty years and I'm not really getting any younger) that there were so many things that could have been achieved when Sherlock was alive.

John thought of all the brushes, the nearly-there touches, the could've-been kisses that only needed a gentle prod, and could've resulted in him being the happiest man in the world.

But he didn't.

The thought made him very, very sad.

The rain hammered harder on the window.

I could see that John's eyes were growing heavy. He was nodding off in his chair, and for his sake I hope it would be a good dream, for once. Three times this month he's woken screaming, and that is three too many.

He tells me sometimes; then he thinks himself mad for talking to a lump of calcium, but if it gives him comfort, then I'm willing to lend an ear (oh, humour me and go with it, will you?).

John's nightmares are hardly ever about Afghanistan now, instead it's replaced with falling and flying coat tails and pale skin spattered with blood. He can't get any further than that, before he starts choking up and _I can't, I can't, I just can't._

Suddenly he jerked up in his chair, looking towards not his bedroom, but the one that hasn't been opened forever and a day now.

* * *

**_(John's P.O.V)_**

I could hear it.

I could hear it. I wasn't mad. No matter what Ella said, but what did she know anyway?

I wasn't mad. I wasn't depressed. I was fine. And, at the moment, there was someone playing the violin, and it was coming from Sherlock's room- I know Mrs Hudson couldn't bear to be in there, and frankly I, The-one-who-invaded-Afghanistan couldn't either. I was afraid. But the point was that _someone was in there, _and if it wasn't me, nor Mrs Hudson, or a house robber (not that that would've been to bad- I need another excuse to handle my gun, other than to hold it to my head and pull the trigger) it could've only been (my heart leapt at the prospect) _him._

I jumped out of my chair, all traces of sleepiness gone from my mind. I ran down the corridor, and wrenched open the door.

It was stiff, and as soon as the wooden door opened and I flew inside the music ceased, the last note lingering hauntingly in the air.

I stood there, frozen, before tears smarted my eyes.

I was right- the Lazy Git hadn't made his bed- and as I trod further in the carpet crunched heavy with dust. The musky smell invaded my nostrils, along with the scent of his cologne, his shower gel, _him._

My God, I missed him.

Then something caught my eye; it was obviously propped up lovingly against the wall. Without consciously giving my body permission, the shiny wood was on my collar bones, chin resting on the rest, bow in my left hand.

I remembered all what he used to play, and the room to seemed to come alive- the golden sun leaked through the half closed curtains, the dust motes dancing simply for me in a private show in Sherlock's room.

I stroked the bow across the strings, making it scream in pain in my arms.

The emotions crushed me. I knew I wouldn't be great straight away, but even a simple open string sounded different from his. I realised that I would never hear him again, never hear him play, or never complain (even though I enjoyed it really). He would never play for me, and he would nev-

'Please, stop murdering that, will you?'

I whirled around, accidentally sweeping deodorants and titbits off of the dressing table with the bow. I didn't bother to pick them up.

He was there, perfect as always- a little taller than I remember, his hair longer, but he still had his full pink lips, heavy brows, sharp eyes and that purple shirt. Dressed impeccably, as always. Git.

I tried to say something, but nothing came out. No tears, no sobs or gasps or cursaves or shouts. Nothing.

I swiped a finger across incredibly sharp cheekbones. 'Silly sod, you haven't been eating.'

Sherlock gave a chuckle, and leaned into my touch like a cat. He gave a sigh, before he withdrew his head (my hand cried out for the loss of heat and loss of… love?) before he was suddenly behind me, tiling my head to rest correctly on the rest and arm around my back in an effort to correct my posture and left arm. He moved my elbow, which in turn made the strings sing softly, if a bit out of tune from years of not being used.

'And then you do this-' his lips were now at the shell of my ear, and I supressed a shiver, instead concentrating on the wood in my arms. He gently pressed my fingers on the neck, instantly making a new sound fill the room.

We continued to do this, different strings and different notes until we had a whole song. My fingers were sloppy, unpractised, but he gave encouraging smiles that warmed my heart the whole way.

I held it out to him, and as he took it off me and played, I was enchanted. You could almost see the notes linger in the air, before swirling into the hurricane that was the dust motes in the golden light, catching the ebony hair on Sherlock's head, turning it ginger. His fingers- my god, I could've looked at the all day- pressed with the right amount of pressure and grace that made me look like a pre-schooler.

The last note lingered, and I found I was blinking more than usual. I gave a smile, which was most definably lacking in my usual confidence, for he was wrapped around me.

I immediately sank down to sit on the dust covered bed, and he did too: he hugged me, squeezing me tight, not saying anything, just embracing me, with one arm around my body and the other stretching up so his hand was on the back of my neck. He didn't have to say anything: I realised his hair tickled my face and I was okay with that- it was all fine.

I tentatively raised my own arms to copy his position and we just stayed like that.

'John?'

'Mmm?'

'I missed you.'

'I know, Sherlock, I know; I missed you so much too.'

'John?'

'Yes, Sherlock?'

'I… I think I love you.'

I beamed into the soft silk of his chest which, unbeknownst to me, had become slightly damp with salt water. I looked up, into those odd, slanty but perfect eyes.

I knew.

There were gentle, barely there kisses up my cheeks, cheekbones and across my eyebrows that told me he missed me. Small brushes against my ear to tell me he was so sorry. Soft kisses on my lips to show that he loved me.

I had no trouble reciprocating. After a few minutes, he pulled away.

'I love you John.'

'I know- you said.'

He tilted his head and dipped his chin. He really was a child at times. 'No, I _know _I love you now. There isn't an 'I think'. I know.'

He dipped his head into the junction of my neck and shoulder to hide the scarlet blooming across the cheeks.

I never remembered being so happy.

* * *

'Sherlock, I-'

I sat bolt upright in my small bed. My mumbled sentence died out in my throat, before being replaced with a lump I became accustomed to having.

Oh.

Another dream again.

I rolled over to see my alarm to my left- it was three in the morning. I pressed my lips together in a feeble effort to stop them shaking- it was useless, the pressing didn't stop the tears- and rolled over.

Have beens. Should've saids. Could've beens. This- or, rather, my dream- could've been real if I hadn't have been so stubborn to want him to ask me first.

In another life, I would've done it differently.

I succumbed to the tears. I let them rob my chest of air, corrupt my soul and shatter my broken heart. I hadn't cried like this, not since he died. I felt empty.

Through my blurred vision, I saw the gun on my computer table to my right.

Huh. Eternal sleep, that's what my professor used to call death. No waking up, and after forty-eight hours, the brain simply gave up and stopped producing electrical signals. Well and truly dead, beyond.

I often wondered what was after death- it would be a bit morbid if you just _die- _and don't get me wrong, I'm not a religious man, but even though suicide in most religions is a sin, I'm sure God or Jesus or Allah or whoever I was meant to worship would see my plight and pity my poor soul.

The gun looked even more inviting, and I let out a breath that I didn't know I was holding.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I would end my plight for good.


End file.
